


nothing lasts forever / this is gonna take me down

by lcdysansa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Co-workers, F/M, Hollywood AU, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Song: Wildest Dreams (Taylor Swift)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lcdysansa/pseuds/lcdysansa
Summary: Yes, he is an asshole. Solely because she wants him to be. Because it’s easier to explain why she is so hurt when she knew exactly what she was getting into the first time she fucked him. To explain why pain and disappointment numb her body after he tells her, “Not on set,” and the director yells “Action!”The lights blind her and she puts a smirk on her face. Action.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 90





	nothing lasts forever / this is gonna take me down

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)  
> I wanna thank Gigi for giving me the inspiration for this, Gabi for being the sweetest, and Selma for allowing me to annoy her with my insecurities in the middle of the night. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this :)

**nothing lasts forever / this is gonna take me down**

chapter 1: heaven can’t help me now

Camera lights flashing. Photographers screaming for her. She can’t make out the words they’re shouting. Looking down, all she sees is her baby pink gown, her heels, stepping one foot in front of the other on the red carpet. Looking up, flashing teeth, smiling gloriously, shaking her head slowly, batting her eyelashes. She lifts her arm and waves at the photographers, reporters, the fans who came here for her. A crowd of nameless faces. Her nervousness is coming back, tension that makes her toes cramp, that makes her shiver though it is not cold at all. Or is it?

She grabs some of the fabric of her dress, lifting it slightly in the front, and continues walking over the red carpet, away from the safety of the car that brought her here. She tries so hard to not be in distress, to be cool, be unapproachable, but seeing him standing there, so many yards apart, so devilishly handsome, with the jet-black suit and that crooked smile of his, it’s almost too much for her to bear. And though she expected it, though she knew it, she can’t help but feel a pang in her chest, a turmoil of jealousy and desperation, when she sees _her_ standing next to him, tall, redhaired, gorgeous. Grabbing his hand possessively, drawing his attention to her and her only, so here Sansa stands, on a red carpet surrounded by hundreds of people, feeling like the loneliest girl in the world.

And so she turns around, away from him, away from his annoyingly irritating demeanour. They’re still screaming for her. All she sees are spots of white, blinding her, making her remember life on set eleven months ago.

_nothing lasts forever._

His lips are soft on her collarbone, his beard brushing roughly against her skin, leaving red circles on her ivory complexion, his hand – hard and calloused – gripping her thigh with a strength that makes her hum softly; and through it all, she can hear his heartbeat, loud and rhythmic.

_dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub._

She feels like she’s flying, on a high not even the best drugs could take her, somewhere above the clouds, and his lips move downwards. Nothing lasts forever. She’s moving, wringing, twisting. He places her leg over his shoulder and, his right hand caressing the skin on her belly, breathes hot against where she so _desperately_ needs him, her core, moving to give him better access, spreading her legs even further.

_dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub._

“Sansa,” he whispers huskily, her name like a love letter on his lips, like a prayer, like the sweetest promise ever made. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to, couldn’t possibly if she tried because before she knows it, electricity is running through her entire body, it spreads out to her finger tips, to every fibre of her body, from where his tongue circles her clit, his lips kissing her sensitive spots, his teeth teasing her skin. Sansa grips his dark long curls, encouraging him to go on and on and on.

_dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub. dub. dub dub._

He looks up, grinning. She reaches for his face, panting, and pulls him to her, kissing him passionately, kissing him wildly. His hands brush over her body, her breasts, and she urges him to come closer, hugging him, biting his lip, when he finally enters her, fills her, makes her lose her mind slowly. Scratching his lower back, pressing him closer, she just holds onto him the entire night.

* * *

She’s on set one and a half hours earlier than anyone else. Makeup and hair takes its time. Closing her eyes, breathing in the scent of the bitter coffee in front of her, trying to remember her lines for today, but it’s pictures of his face flooding her thoughts. “You okay, honey?” her makeup artist asks. Shae, a nice girl. A bit older than Sansa, but so fresh and so kind, her earrings always match the colour of her nail polish, in a weird way. Sansa nods, banning him from her thoughts, it’s way too early for this.

She’s twenty-five, she’s popular, she’s beautiful. That kind of beautiful that demands everyone’s attention once she enters a room, enchanting everyone with her smile, the world at her feet. It shouldn’t be like this, her so dependent on him, _craving_ him every single second of the day, even more so at night, in the dark, when she’s alone, hands traveling down. His curls, his hands, his beard. Those lips.

Wherever she goes by day, by night, paparazzi follow her, and sometimes it’s tiring, sometimes it’s exhilarating, giving her a rush she can’t quite describe, but when people ask her for pictures, she feels good, she’s happy. She knows she’s living her best life. Everything she wanted as a teenager, as a child even, she has achieved and probably even more, and who knows what’s to come? Forbes 30 under 30 in Hollywood and Entertainment. Emmy-nominated. Highest-grossing movie of the year. Brand ambassador for Louis Vuitton. Sansa knows she is lucky, and she cherishes every single moment of it, been in the industry for five years now, so you could say it is quite the irony she hasn’t met him before they got together for this movie. Bonnie and Clyde. Of fucking course.

She’s standing in the kitchen on set, white cotton blouse, long maroon skirt, a cup in her hands, waiting for directions. The tiles are mint green with flowers on them and they’re so utterly ugly, one might almost consider them beautiful. Definitely different, definitely that old look. Blue curtains, New Year’s Eve decorations still everywhere. It’s supposed to be the beginning of January. Mint green goes surprisingly well with gold, she decides. The director says something but she can’t really focus, still thinking of him last night, gripping her thigh like that, his curls between her legs. She puts the cup down. She thinks she might even have some bruises on her legs, she didn’t see it this morning.

Seeing him on set every morning takes her back to school when she was crushing obsessively on older guys in the football team, back before she started actually dating them. Feeling all giddy, flustered, blushing vigorously. He looks so handsome, in his white shirt and grey trousers, a pair of black suspenders. _So_ handsome. He smirks at her in a way only he can, subtle enough to not reveal himself, to not disclose what happened last night and so many nights before, but still enough for her to think of nothing else the entire day. It’s embarrassing, really, how she’s drawn to him like she’s never experienced it. Like she wants to give in to him, to everything he wants, needs, demands of her.

He touches her arm gently. “Sleep well?” She almost thinks he’s mocking her, but looking up, she sees how he looks at her, amatory, yet wild, like he wants to lift her up and ravish her neck right there, on that counter in the mint green kitchen somewhere on set in California. She wants to be angry with him. Wants to give him the cold shoulder for leaving her like that in the middle of the night, letting her wake up alone in a cold bed, abandoned. He sees it in her eyes, he must, because he says he’s sorry. She believes him. “You know I’m in a difficult situation,” he whispers so that no one can hear, no one except Sansa. Right.

It hits her then, remembers what is really going on here. It’s like being struck by wave of ice cold salt water, and she can’t breathe. Wants to, but can’t. His girlfriend, but then not really girlfriend. They’re on a break. She huffs. He _must_ see her anger now because he backs down, slowly. Says, “not on set.” She looks up, staring directly into the bright lights hanging above her and breathes in deeply, tears swelling up. He turns away and Sansa can’t quite believe she got herself into this kind of situation. Gods, what would her mother think?

Of course it was just sex, at the beginning. Obviously. A man like Jon Snow, who’d say no? She was hesitant first, but he assured her him and his girlfriend, a model, Ygritte, she thinks, that’s her name, were on a break. Or are. But she’s too young to not give in, too smitten with his charms. No strings attached and all that. Sansa isn’t even sure if she regrets it, probably not though, she thinks, as the lights are dimmed and everyone leaves the little stage she’s on, the cameras focusing on her now.

Is Jon Snow an asshole? No, he’s kind and charming, knows how to use words, knows how to use his hands, too. She likes the way he bows his head to his left a little every time someone gives him a compliment, tries to play it off, but she can see that he’s flattered every single time. He’s not so shy in bed, she thinks then. Not at all. On the other hand, yes. Yes, he is an asshole. Solely because she wants him to be. Because it’s easier to explain why she is so hurt when she knew _exactly_ what she was getting into the first time she fucked him. To explain why pain and disappointment numb her body after he tells her, “Not on set,” and the director yells “Action!” The lights blind her and she puts a smirk on her face. Action.

_this is gonna take me down._

“Sansa!”

“Miss Stark!”

“Hey, Bonnie! Sansa! Turn around!”

“Show me a smile, sweetheart!”

“Give me that shoulder look, Sansa!”

She does and does and does. Turning, smiling, waving, posing. It’s like she’s in a trance, everything is blurry. The red carpets of the world are bubbles. For just a few minutes they make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world while at the same time robbing you of any sense of safety and security whatsoever. When his eyes land on her, she involuntarily smiles, and he reaches for her. Everyone is shouting. It’s staggeringly loud.

“Sansa,” Ygritte’s eyes are sparkling, she looks infuriatingly happy. “Ygritte, it’s _so_ good to see you, truly.” She smiles. Fake fake fake. Can’t help herself. Jon then touches her arm, his finger tips causing a flash of memories, there and gone again. “It’s good to see you, Sansa.”

Hugging him, she breathes in his scent, the same as almost a year ago, but this time with a feminine touch, something floral lingering, and she lets go of his shoulder as if she burned herself. When they’re inside, waiting for the champagne, she feels even worse than out there on the red carpet, next to him, next to the woman he spends every night with, smiling into the cameras as if nothing is wrong. Because now she’s alone with him and looking him in the eyes makes it so much harder for her to pretend.

“You know, I called you. Dozens of times,” he says, his eyelashes, she notices then, are so long and beautiful, framing his dark grey eyes like a painting.

“I know,” she replies, her eyes roaming over his body, his face, trying to figure out where he is going with this. “I got them.”

“So why didn’t you answer?”

“Is this really where you want to discuss this?”

He laughs then, wryly, coarsely. “Would you have replied at another moment, by any chance? Were you too busy to chat with an old friend?”

“Old friend!” she forces herself to laugh, she can feel people stare at her and there’s nothing she wants more than to just shake him and make him _see_. “We both knew where this was going, Jon. Don’t play me, don’t pretend you didn’t see how you made me feel, how this whole thing made me feel.”

“So you knew where this was going, huh? Is that why you just left like that? Not even five hours after finishing filming? Not giving me the chance to _explain_?”

“Explain what, exactly?” Sansa hisses. She can feel herself reddening, the way she’s slowly getting worked up. “You’re unbelievable. Intolerable. Getting back with your girlfriend after – quite literally – fucking me in _my_ bed and leaving me all alone, not even once, not once did you give me more than that.”

Jon stares at her, he’s as surprised as she is at her words. Looking around, he smiles at the people watching them, wondering what they are bickering about. “You didn’t even let me explain. Like you’re not letting me explain right now, Sans.”

“Don’t call me that!” It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. She never wants to see him again, she decides impulsively. “I’m not stupid, okay, Jon. And, frankly, I believe it says enough that she’s with you, now. Here. Tonight.” She laughs hysterically. “Watching the movie we filmed together, watching how you kissed me on set, touched me in front of the camera. But she doesn’t see how you came into my room afterwards, huh? Did all those things and even more. Does she know?”

He stares at her then, silently. And she has her answer. Unfathomable. Exasperating. Devastating. “Enjoy the premiere,” she whispers, putting on a brave smile. She has to get out. For a moment, she wonders if she’s just being overdramatic, letting her emotions take over, but then, how can something she’s feeling so strongly, something that feels so real and honest, how can that be overdramatic? How could anyone have the audacity to tell her, right here and now, that she does not have the right to make a scene like that? Running off to the bathroom like this, ignoring her friends, avoiding her team in the hallway, closing the bathroom door behind her, leaning against it, sinking to the floor, crumpling up her pretty pink dress.

When girls cry, her mum used to tell her five-year-old self, a star dies, up in the sky, far away, and burns through space, leaving a trail in the sky that even we can see on earth. And then, every time that happens, that girl can wish for something. Sansa desperately wants to hug her mother now. She wonders if that’s still true, if even at twenty-five, if she leaves this building now and the soft September rain falls down on her, the wind blowing the hair out of her face, will she spot a shooting star? Through all the skyscrapers, through all the clouds? Getting up and wiping the mascara from under her eyes, she decides to take a chance.


End file.
